


It's Not a Cry (it's cold and it's broken)

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, Double Anal Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, Humiliation, Implied past dubcon/noncon, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Monto has issues, Open Relationships, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sex Toys, Threesome - M/M/M, Unprotected penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:16:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pippo takes the helm at Milan, but as he gets to work, he realizes there are more things he needs to do than just coach the struggling team. Namely, taking care of that out-of-control captain of his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Porpentina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porpentina/gifts).



> Kind of a sequel to [Bitter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1559525), because I wanted to write more of psycho!Monto in this premise, this time with Coach Pippo. 
> 
> I’ve wanted to try out writing BDSM for quite some time now – step out of my comfort zone, if you will – and this idea has been developing somewhere at the back of my head since Pippo replaced Seedorf at the end of the season. Now I feel like the time is right to actually try and write it.
> 
> Please be mindful of the warnings. This story is not dubcon/noncon like _Bitter_ , but it does depict an unhealthy sexual relationship that is based on power play and mutual manipulation - it is definitely not what a working BDSM relationship is supposed to be! There are several elements that might work as a trigger to some.
> 
> The title is derived from Leonard Cohen’s _Hallelujah_.

_”Be careful with Montolivo. He’s completely out of control – an actual psychopath if I’ve ever seen one.”_  
  
  
Pippo is in a bit of a predicament as he takes the job as the Milan manager.  
  
On one hand, there is Clarence, an old friend and teammate, his predecessor, who is telling him the club captain is an insane, manipulative, power hungry bastard, who was the main reason Clarence was fired in the first place.  
  
On the other hand, there are Galliani and Berlusconi who had their own reasons to sack the previous manager, none of which were in any way connected to Montolivo. In fact, they have nothing but good things to say about the captain.  
  
Then there is Pippo’s own perception of Riccardo which, while not exactly comprehensive, has always been vaguely positive – first as an opponent for all those years, then as a Milan player and captain while Pippo himself was busy coaching the youth team.  
  
Pippo had talked to Riccardo over the phone the night he got injured – he had sounded heart-broken and lost, uncertain what he was supposed to do now that he was out of the World Cup squad.  
  
Pippo had assured him everything would be fine, told him all he had to do now was to focus on getting better, because Milan needed their captain back as soon as possible.  
  
Not even once had Pippo suspected Riccardo could be anything else than a generally good guy, a silent leader that stood by his teammates, ready to fight for them and the team until the end: a quality that made people put their faith in him no matter where he went.  
  
But as Clarence’s words sink in, Pippo begins to notice things – the way Riccardo never lets anyone under his skin, never reveals his true motives or wishes, carefully entwining his influence through the club, playing his role to the perfection.  
  
Pippo still cannot see the monster Clarence was talking about, but he is beginning to understand that it might be somewhere in there, hidden deep beneath the pleasant surface.  
  
Still, Pippo has no idea what he is supposed to do with this information, so he does the only sensible thing he can think of: he skypes to Andrea in Brazil, because his long-time partner has always been the better judge of character than Pippo.  
  
“Oh, so you noticed already? I’m proud of you, fruitcake,” Andrea quips amusedly once Pippo is done explaining the situation, using that stupid nickname he gave Pippo back when they were still playing together, “Congratulations, you’ve got yourself one serious nut job for a captain.”  
  
“So you knew?” Pippo asks with a long-suffering sigh, glaring at Andrea’s picture on his smartphone screen, “Didn’t occur to you I might wanna know stuff like that?”  
  
“Of course I knew, I’ve been playing with him in the national team for years,” Andrea scoffs with a roll of his eyes, “Figured there was no reason to make a big deal out of it unless he did something stupid.”  
  
“Like getting Clarence sacked?” Pippo asks curiously, because if Andrea does not consider that stupid, then Pippo has no idea what he is talking about.  
  
“As if he had the power to do that,” Andrea counters immediately, lowering his voice as someone walks past him in the corridor he had escaped his teammates, “Riccardo doesn’t  _care_  who his coach is, all he cares about is that he has control over them. Why’d he get Clarence fired when he obviously had him right where he wanted him?”  
  
Pippo has to agree with Andrea on that one, because from what Clarence told him, Riccardo had never revealed any reason why he would want Clarence out of Milan.  
  
“It’s all game for Riccardo: he’s done it with everyone who’s been in the position of having power over him,” Andrea continues, sounding far too calm for someone whose lover has just found himself in that ‘position of power’, “He tests the waters, establishes his control of the situation.”  
  
“You’re saying he’s slept with every single coach he’s ever had?” Pippo asks carefully, disbelieving.  
  
“Hardly. It’s all up to the other person, really. Whatever gives him the upper hand,” Andrea scoffs out a chuckle, his eyes twinkling with amusement, “I believe Allegri genuinely had feelings for him, so Riccardo just took the advantage of that. And Clarence— I think Riccardo just enjoyed seeing him lose his cool.”  
  
“You know awfully lot about this,” Pippo notes pointedly, fixing a suspicious look at Andrea through the video connection.  
  
“I pay attention. You should try it sometime.”  
  
Pippo rolls his eyes, because he knows how much Andrea loves knowing everything happening around him, “So what should I do? He’s gonna go for me next, right?”  
  
“You just go along with it: let Riccardo do his thing and you’ll be just fine,” Andrea replies with a barely visible shrug, “Or you could try reversing the situation – take the control away from him – and see if he actually winds up respecting you.”  
  
“And if he doesn’t?” Pippo asks after quickly considering Andrea’s words. He needs to have his captain’s respect – even trust – if he intends to bring Milan back to the top.  
  
“Then you’re massively fucked, no doubt,” Andrea is actually smirking, the bastard, and Pippo can tell he is actually looking forward to seeing what will happen, “But then again, what kind of a manager would you be if you didn’t even try?”  
  
“You really want me to do this, don’t you?” Pippo asks with a humourless laugh, silently wondering why he has tolerated Andrea’s whims all these years.  
  
“All up to you, of course,” Andrea answers airily, looking away from the camera as someone speaks to him on the other end, “I gotta go now. Keep me updated, will you, fruitcake?”  
  
“Will do,” Pippo promises absent-mindedly, his brain already analyzing the situation and the information he just received, “Go kick ass, Andrea. I love you.”  
  
“Love you too,” Andrea mutters quietly, obviously making sure no one else overhears his words, “Oh, and one more thing. Do you know what Clarence’s biggest mistake was?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“He assumed it was about himself. With Riccardo, it’s never about you. It’s all about Riccardo. And the moment you forget that, you’ve already lost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Andrea calling Pippo “fruitcake” comes from his book _I Think Therefore I Play_ , where he describes Pippo as “a really nice fruitcake.” I really need to get around to writing about these two without putting Monto in the mix, but for now this is all I’m capable of.  
> \- Pippo and Monto really did talk over the phone right after Monto’s injury (along with Galliani and Berlusconi), though I have no idea what was said.  
> \- The Skype conversation is obviously set during the time Italy was still playing in the World Cup. I’d place it sometime after they played England but before Costa Rica, when Andrea actually had time to think about Pippo’s problems instead of his own.  
> \- This part is probably the shortest one in this story, almost a prologue instead of a proper chapter. The lengths may vary a lot, though, because I have certain things I want to include in each chapter: basically they will be as long as I need them to be.  
> \- Feedback would be much appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will use some common Italian titles in the dialogue, because I’ve seen them translated a bit differently in different contexts, and I prefer to keep the original feel to them.  
>  _Mister_ = coach, boss, mister; referring to Pippo  
>  _Presidente_ = president, chairman; referring to Silvio Berlusconi (owner of Milan)  
>  _Dottore_ = doctor, master; referring to Adriano Galliani (CEO of Milan)

Milanello is full of life in late August: the first team and the youth teams all making the final preparations for the new season, fresh transfers getting used to the atmosphere, the Milan Lab running the final physicals to make sure everyone is fit to play.  
  
Only a few days before the season starts, and Riccardo feels a tiny twinge of something because he cannot be there— Guilt? No, not really. Bitterness? Maybe. Jealousy? In a way, yes.  
  
He has tried to give the team his support, despite his injury. He was there for the presentation of the new squad back in July, for the first gatherings of the preseason, for the club captain meetings together with Abbiati, Bonera, and the new coaching staff.  
  
Riccardo has been there to see the first steps of Pippo Inzaghi as the new manager, studying him, trying to figure him out – paying attention to every little detail, just like Pippo himself does.  
  
Riccardo knows Pippo is suspecting something, does not buy Riccardo’s façade, but he is not quite sure how much the coach actually knows. They barely know each other, and Riccardo not being able to take part in training is not helping either of them.  
  
Riccardo’s honeymoon had come at an opportune time, because it took him away from Pippo’s constant observation, bought him time to weigh the situation again.  
  
But now Riccardo is back in Milanello – no more crutches, no more holidays, his rehabilitation well on the way – and he still cannot tell what he is supposed to do with Pippo.  
  
The stairs to the manager’s office – room number five – are a painful obstacle, but Riccardo chooses to climb them anyways, because the more he exercises, the sooner he will be back on the pitch.  
  
He has to stop halfway through the climb, leaning on the wall, the muscles of his injured leg still not recovered from the earlier physiotherapy session in the gym.  
  
“Shit,” he mutters to himself, a single drop of sweat falling from his hairline and down his face.  
  
He needs to beat this stupid injury, needs to be back with his team. Like this, he feels almost like an outsider, someone with no control of the situation, someone just looking at the development of the team from outside. Riccardo hates feeling so helpless.  
  
“Oh, Riccardo. You need help?” Pippo walks up from behind him, striding the stairs two at a time, stopping at his side, studying him curiously.  
  
Riccardo puts on his most innocent smile, wiping the annoying thread of sweat from his brow, before facing the manager, “Nah, I’ll be fine. Good exercise. Thanks, Mister.”  
  
“Do as you like,” Pippo shrugs and starts walking again, leaving Riccardo behind, “I’ll see you at the office, then.”  
  
Pippo is a big mystery for Riccardo. On the surface, he seems so blunt and easily approachable, someone who should be easy to read, but the more Riccardo gets to know him, the less he can actually say about him.  
  
Pippo is the kind of person who understands his surroundings, controls the situation while making it seem like he does nothing at all, Riccardo has learnt that much just from watching him play back in the day. Pippo analyzes everything, does not leave anything to chance, is passionate without letting his feelings get the better of him.  
  
How is Riccardo supposed to control someone like that?  
  
He finally makes it up the stairs and through the first door in the corridor. The manager’s office is the same as ever – the bed on the left, half-hidden by a folding screen that did not use to be there, the desk and bookshelves on the right.  
  
Gone are Seedorf’s family photos, replaced by piles and piles of papers: tactical formations, statistics, match reports, charts… The desk might look messy to an untrained eye, but Riccardo can tell that Pippo knows exactly where everything is, even among the apparent disorder.  
  
Pippo is standing by the window, not saying a word, just looking at Riccardo like waiting for him to make the first move.  
  
“I like what you’ve done with the interior,” Riccardo notes, settling for playful sarcasm, gesturing around the room that seems to be lacking any personal touch.  
  
With Max and Clarence, Riccardo could tell it was  _their_  office right from the first glance, photos and personal items littered around the wide space.  
  
“It’s where I work. It doesn’t need to look like my second living room,” Pippo retorts simply, walking over to Riccardo, “Have a seat; your leg must be killing you. You want something to drink?”  
  
“I’m fine, thanks,” Riccardo answers as he sits down slowly, keeping his face carefully neutral even as inwardly he is singing his relief as his leg finally gets some much needed rest.  
  
“So, how’s rehab going?” Pippo does not sit down, looming over Riccardo instead, and Riccardo realizes he made a huge mistake when he sat down. He forces himself to stay seated, though, because jumping up would reveal to Pippo how uncomfortable he is feeling.  
  
“Well enough, I guess. Still a long way to go to the full recovery, though,” he looks up at Pippo, tilting his head just a little and blinking his eyes slowly, licking his lips with just the tip of his tongue, “I’m sorry for not being of much use to you, Mister.”  
  
It is not quite flirting, but it is enough to see how Pippo reacts to him – if there is any reason to go any further.  
  
Riccardo is not a  _whore_ , even if Clarence has told him otherwise on several occasions. He merely knows how to use his body to get what he wants. It is not his fault that Clarence could not control his urges, or that Max fell for him right from the beginning.  
  
With Pippo, though, Riccardo is still not quite sure where he stands, what approach to take, so he bids his time, setting up invisible traps around the coach.  
  
“Did that really work on Clarence?” Pippo asks suddenly, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he slips between Riccardo’s chair and the desk, sitting on the tabletop right in front of Riccardo, his legs spread on both side of him, “You flutter your lashes and he loses his cool just like that?”  
  
Oh. So Clarence did talk to Pippo after he got fired. Who would have thought?  
  
“What, you knew all this time?” Riccardo lets out an airy laugh, meeting Pippo’s eyes through his eyelashes, “Should’ve told me sooner; I though I was supposed to act clueless.”  
  
“Well, it  _is_  my job to know these things,” Pippo is still smirking, meeting Riccardo’s eyes squarely, not at all flustered from what Riccardo can tell, “Surely you’re not thinking you can get to me that easily.”  
  
Pippo probably would fuck him if he asked for it, Riccardo realizes as their eye contact stretches, neither of them willing to pull away from the staring contest. He would fuck Riccardo, but it would be completely different from Max or Clarence.  
  
Riccardo cannot manipulate Pippo through sex. With Pippo, it would be just casual sex – albeit good sex, considering all the practice Pippo must have had over the years – with no emotional attachments or guilt trips.  
  
“Why’d you think I’m trying to get to you, Mister?” Riccardo asks softly, his smile not dropping, his hand brushing against Pippo’s knee as if by accident, “I never did anything to Clarence, either. It was all him.”  
  
“That’s not what he says, is it?” Pippo quips easily, leaning forwards just a little to make the distance between them even shorter, “Though I do believe you, Riccardo. You didn’t get him fired – that had Presidente and Dottore written all over it.”  
  
“And Clarence himself,” Riccardo reminds him immediately, pursing his lips just a little, feigning a pout, “Poor guy, he could’ve had such a bright future with us.”  
  
Riccardo does not actually care, either way. Clarence had been quick to see through his cover, sure, but he had also been easy enough for Riccardo to manipulate. A bit of a challenge after Max, but not bad enough that he would have wanted to get rid of him quite that fast.  
  
Pippo is a challenge on a completely different level, though: someone who actually understands Riccardo, or at least some small part of him; someone who is openly challenging him, inviting him to give his best shot.  
  
When challenged, the best option is often to play along, to let them think they are winning while waiting for the right time to strike.  
  
Silence falls between them, Riccardo’s hand resting on Pippo’s knee and Pippo’s eyes never shying away from his.  
  
“Know what? I think you’re scared,” Pippo finally says quietly, and Riccardo notices he has leant even closer only because he can now feel Pippo’s breath on his face, “You don’t wanna give up the control because without that control, you’re nothing but a scared little boy, unable to trust or rely on anyone but yourself.”  
  
It is an obvious challenge: an attempt to rile him up, useless guesswork to make Riccardo doubt himself. A pathetic attempt, really.  
  
“You know nothing about me,” Riccardo whispers gently, his tone only slightly colder than intended, “I’ve got no reason to be afraid of you.”  
  
Pippo is touching his chin now, only two fingers on his jaw as if to make sure Riccardo will not pull away from him, and their lips are only inches apart. His breath feels warm against Riccardo’s lips.  
  
“Of course you don’t,” Pippo smiles, caressing Riccardo’s cheek with one finger, “Because I’m not your enemy, Riccardo. I  _will_  win this, and it won’t harm you in any way. So you might as well get used to the idea.”  
  
Pippo thinks he can win against Riccardo? He thinks he can control Riccardo? He might as well sign his resignation now.  
  
Riccardo presses his forehead against Pippo’s, rubbing their noses together in mock affection, their lips almost brushing against each other as he speaks, “I’m not scared of you.”  
  
“Then prove it,” Pippo urges him on, his hand now cupping Riccardo’s face, and he drops a peck on the corner of Riccardo’s mouth before he continues, “Let me have the control. Show me how strong you are when you’re being dominated. Show me the true Riccardo Montolivo under those childish tricks of yours.”  
  
Pippo is crazy. Utterly, completely, batshit crazy.  
  
“You’d be just doing exactly what Clarence did,” Riccardo argues, his voice nothing more than a threatening whisper, “He tried to dominate me, but in the end he was always the one who lost.”  
  
“Oh, but that’s where we’re different: I’m not trying to beat you,“ Pippo pulls back suddenly, leaning his hands against the tabletop, looking down at Riccardo, “We’re on the same side; I’ve already won. It’s up to you whether you want to play with me or against me.”  
  
Riccardo has no idea what he is trying to say. If this is some stupid lesson about trust, then Pippo really is insane: Riccardo has no reason or interest to put his faith in anyone but himself.  
  
“So what do you suggest?” Riccardo asks, reaching out for the fly of Pippo’s dress pants casually, playing with the zipper without actually opening it.  
  
If Pippo thinks he can toy with Riccardo, he is sorely mistaken. Riccardo will play along and let him think he has the control. And then Riccardo will break him, pull him apart piece by piece, until there is nothing left of him.  
  
“Get on your knees,” Pippo’s voice is low, commanding, much more controlled than Clarence ever was. He stands up in front of Riccardo, pushing the captain’s hands away and opening his trousers himself.  
  
Riccardo follows the command, not because he is afraid or because he has to, but because sex is just sex and Pippo will never dominate him with just that.  
  
“I will have you any way I want,” Pippo tells Riccardo as he pulls his still soft cock from his pants, his other hand tugging on Riccardo’s hair a bit too hard to be comfortable, “I’ll call on you, and you’ll come over right away. No protests. No complaints. You’ll be at my mercy, you understand?”  
  
Riccardo answers by taking Pippo’s cock in his hand, stroking it firmly a few times. He can feel it hardening in his hold, even if Pippo does not give any other sign to show his arousal.  
  
“I asked, do you understand?” Pippo repeats calmly, pulling on Riccardo’s hair until he is forced to look up at Pippo’s face.  
  
“I understand,  _Mister_ ,” Riccardo assures him, even though they both know he is still far from accepting Pippo’s rules. He will never be dominated, no matter what Pippo thinks of him.  
  
Pippo tugs on his hair, and Riccardo leans in obediently to take his cock into his mouth, swallowing it in halfway at one go, then slowly working more of him into his mouth, careful not to choke on the shaft.  
  
“Too slow,” Pippo tells him harshly, his hold on Riccardo’s hair tightening as he jerks his hips forwards, fucking Riccardo’s mouth, making him choke with the first few pushes before Riccardo manages to relax his throat, breathing through his nose.  
  
It takes longer for Pippo to come than it ever did with Max or Clarence, but Riccardo guesses it is normal considering Pippo did not seem to be turned on at all when they started. This is not about sexual gratification, this is about power.  
  
The power that Pippo only thinks he has.  
  
Finally Pippo pulls out of Riccardo’s mouth, his seed seeping on Riccardo’s lips and jaw. He rubs the tip against Riccardo’s cheek as well, making sure to make a mess of him.  
  
“If you ever want this to stop, just say  _’code red’_ , and that’ll be it,” Pippo says as he tugs his cock back into his pants, his other hand rubbing Riccardo’s scalp where he tugged too hard earlier, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to show you submitting doesn’t always mean losing.”  
  
A safeword. A way out if Riccardo cannot handle it. A device of control that means Riccardo is not actually submitting at all.  
  
It is also a sign of defeat. A signal that Riccardo is scared. A message that he is too weak to take whatever Pippo throws at him.  
  
“Come over to my house after the game on Sunday,” Pippo tells him as he helps Riccardo up, his leg protesting the movement immediately, but Riccardo does not give Pippo the satisfaction of seeing how much he is hurting.  
  
“Sure thing, Mister.”  
  
Riccardo will go along with this; he will let Pippo do as he likes; he will let him think he is in control.  
  
But in the end, Riccardo will be the last man standing, in the middle of the smoking ruins that used to be the life of Pippo Inzaghi. And then they will see who the winner really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The stuff on Seedorf's sacking is made up for this particular story, and it doesn't necessarily reflect my own opinions about what happened. Let's keep those discussions on different forums, okay?  
> \- The description of the manager’s office in Milanello comes from Carlo Ancelotti’s book _The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius_. A great read, by the way, and I recommend it to everyone interested in the inner workings of the football world.  
>  \- I obviously don’t know how Riccardo’s rehabilitation is going or if he can actually walk up stairs by the end of this month, but he’s already walking without the crutches so I figured, why not?  
> \- I feel like I didn’t make Psycho!Monto psycho enough, but this was the best I could come up with. Sorry about that. ~~Looking at you,[lunasenzanotte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte), because I know how much you love your psycho babies~~.  
>  \- I was honestly surprised how many hits this story got within the first day on AO3 only. And here I thought I was the only one interested in this concept... Thank you for reading!
> 
> \- Feedback would be lovely!♥


	3. Chapter 3

Match day, Pippo’s first as the head coach.  
  
It brings him back to all those times he used to come to San Siro as a player: full stands, fans singing his name, the whole team fighting for victory and glory.  
  
Today the atmosphere is not quite like that, it is more anxious, apprehensive, unsure of what to expect from the season, but for Pippo it is enough – he is back home, where he belongs – and it feels almost unfair that he cannot be the one on the pitch anymore.  
  
He is not down from his post-match high even as he drives back home after giving the players the next day off. They deserve it after working so hard during the preseason, giving their all for the club’s objectives.  
  
He had seen Riccardo in passing as he left the stadium, talking with a few of his teammates, not even sparing a glance to Pippo. The captain had been in the dressing room during the halftime too, and if Pippo did not know any better, he would have thought Riccardo had forgotten all about their exchange two days ago.  
  
Pippo almost wishes Riccardo had forgotten – or maybe decided not to follow Pippo’s orders after all – so that he could just curl up in bed with Andrea and relax after the stressful evening.  
  
“He’s coming. It’s not Riccardo’s style to back out of a challenge,” Andrea assures him as he packs his messenger bag and heads out – where to, Pippo has no idea – “You better get ready, he could be here any minute. I’ll be back sometime during the night.”  
  
Pippo has no idea how Andrea managed to get himself the Monday off even though Juventus had played a day earlier than them, but he is kind of relieved and even thankful for it. He can handle Riccardo on his own, he is sure of it, but it is always easier when he has Andrea with him.  
  
He checks the equipment, walking around the house making sure everything is in place. He considers hiding the photo frame with a picture of him and Andrea, but decides against it. Andrea is not his weakness, so he has no reason to hide him from Riccardo.  
  
Pippo can hear the car engine as Riccardo pulls up in the yard, and for a second nervousness grips his insides – this was not a good idea – before he pulls himself together, reminds himself that this needs to be done, for the good of the team and for Pippo’s career.  
  
“You’re late,” Pippo notes calmly as he opens the door, glancing outside over Riccardo’s shoulder to make sure there are no people watching them – the paparazzi rarely bother to come all the way to his house, but it is better to be overly cautious than get caught on camera.  
  
“You didn’t give me an exact time,” Riccardo retorts, pursing his lips in what is probably supposed to be a cute expression.  
  
“Did I give you a permission to talk back?” Pippo asks sharply, taking a step closer to Riccardo so that their chests are almost touching. They are around the same height like this, Riccardo maybe a bit taller, but Pippo knows height means nothing when it comes to dominance.  
  
Riccardo meets his eyes squarely, looking like he wants to say something more, but he holds his tongue. The pout stays, though, and Pippo makes a mental note that he needs to get rid of that defiant attitude.  
  
“That’s more like it,” he says softly, moving out of the way so Riccardo can walk into the lobby, closing the door behind him, hiding them from the prying eyes, “Now strip.”  
  
Riccardo glances at Pippo over his shoulder, only a brief flash of surprise in his eyes before his innocent mask is back on.  
  
Pippo thinks he will have to tell him again, maybe even use some force to remind him on their one-sided agreement, but then Riccardo pulls his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor unceremoniously. He then drops his hands to his belt, opening it along with the fly of his jeans, pushing them down to his feet, stepping out of them without a word.  
  
He is not wearing any underwear, and Pippo’s throat suddenly feels dry as he regards the naked body in front of him. Is he really ready for this?  
  
“You were waiting for this,” he says aloud, closing the distance between them and taking a hold of Riccardo’s hair to pull his head to the side, ghosting his lips over his neck, next to his ear, “Good boy.”  
  
Pippo pulls a thin leather collar out of his pocket, wrapping it around Riccardo’s neck quickly and fastening it with a small padlock. It is nothing too intimidating, more decorative than functional, but that is exactly what Pippo wants.  
  
“You won’t take this off for anything but training,” Pippo murmurs into Riccardo’s ear, tracing the collar with his fingers, brushing against Riccardo’s Adam’s apple gently, “I’ll have the key on me at all times, so you need to come and ask me to take it off for you. If I see you without it afterwards, I’ll have to punish you. Is that clear?”  
  
 _Establish the ground rules. Establish the ownership._  
  
Riccardo lifts his own hand to his throat, feeling the soft leather against his skin curiously before nodding slowly and whispering, “I understand, Mister.”  
  
“Good boy,” Pippo repeats with a practiced smirk – learned from Andrea, mastered in front of a mirror until it became automatic – before gesturing Riccardo to follow him through the living room and into the bedroom.  
  
Riccardo stops to study the pictures on the bookshelf, his eyes lingering on the one with Andrea, realization lighting up in his face almost immediately, “You and Pirlo—?”  
  
“That’s none of your business, is it?” Pippo deadpans, returning to Riccardo’s side and slapping his butt sharply, earning an alarmed hiss, “Now move.”  
  
“What’d he think of this?” Riccardo asks softly even as he starts walking towards the bedroom, his carefully hidden malice noticeable only because Pippo knows it is there.  
  
“You think I’d do this without his permission?” Pippo retorts immediately, walking behind Riccardo now, fondling his left buttock possessively, “That’s why you’ve got no chance of beating me, Riccardo: you don’t understand me, and you never will.”  
  
Pippo had been serious when he told Riccardo he had no intention of fighting him. There is no need to fight – he will play Riccardo’s game with his own rules, dancing on the line of insanity, wrapping them both into this mess, and hopefully coming out relatively unscratched.  
  
Pippo knows he is playing with fire, voluntarily letting Riccardo so close, but he is also holding all the cards for now: he knows what Riccardo is trying to do; he has the backing of Berlusconi and Galliani; and most importantly, he has Andrea no matter what happens.  
  
Riccardo is the one with more to lose here, the one who will be more affected, and Pippo is willing to let him make the final decision.  
  
The curtains of the bedroom are drawn shut, and the only light comes from the dim bedside lamps, giving an eerie golden glow into the spacious room.  
  
“The bed, on your back,” Pippo instructs quietly, brushing his lips against Riccardo’s ear and squeezing his buttock once more before moving his hand away, waiting for the captain to follow his orders.  
  
There are more leather straps waiting on the bed, one of them already fastened to the headboard from one end. Pippo takes a hold of that one once Riccardo settles down on the bed, fastening the other end to the collar with another lock.  
  
“So that you won’t run away,” he explains needlessly, caressing Riccardo’s hair gently in mock affection. Riccardo ducks his head away from his touch, but Pippo cannot see a sign of nervousness in his expression even though he is bound to the bed now.  
  
“Do people do that a lot, run away from you?”  
  
Pippo pinches one of Riccardo’s nipples hard, and the end of the question is swallowed in a sharp gasp of pain, “No talking back, I said.”  
  
Pippo is straddling Riccardo’s legs, keeping him from moving even though the leash is long enough to allow him a fairly large range of movement. Riccardo is not struggling – actually, he looks almost bored when he meets Pippo’s eyes in the dim lighting.  
  
Pippo runs a finger over Riccardo’s cock – he is half-hard already, like anticipating what Pippo might do next – tracing the growing shape absent-mindedly, as if considering what he wants to do with it, even though his plans have been clear from the start.  
  
He takes another leather strap that he uses to tie Riccardo’s hands together against his chest, attaching the other end to the collar. He runs his fingers over the straps once more, making sure the soft leather is not obstructing the blood flow or chafing Riccardo’s skin. He is doing this to limit his movements, not to hurt him – that will come later.  
  
“Comfortable?” he asks Riccardo softly as he returns to caressing his cock, urging him into full hardness with barely strong enough touches.  
  
“Like a dog tied to a lamppost, thanks for asking,” Riccardo grits out, but Pippo can hear his breath catching at his throat when Pippo touches the tip of his cock.  
  
“That’s good, then,” Pippo laughs softly, pulling his hands away as soon as Riccardo is fully hard.  
  
He picks up the final leather strap from the bedside table, twisting it into a noose and slapping Riccardo’s erection with it – earning another surprised gasp – before slipping the loop around the length, tightening the knot until the strap is fastened around the hilt.  
  
He continues by tying the strap around Riccardo’s balls, separating them and tying the bounds around them both with careful knots, making sure not to make them too tight – they practiced this with Andrea over and over again, and still Pippo is afraid he might be doing something wrong, something that could actually damage Riccardo.  
  
“It won’t stop you from coming, though it does make it more difficult,” he explains to Riccardo once he is finished with his handiwork, Riccardo’s cock wrapped up like a present just waiting to be opened, “You will only come once I give you the permission to do so. Any attempt to do it before that, and you’ll be punished.”  
  
He is fondling Riccardo’s balls as he speaks, partly to turn him on even further, partly to make sure the wraps are not too tight – slowing down the blood flow is fine, obstructing it completely would be not only painful but also dangerous.  
  
Riccardo is not looking at him anymore. Instead, he is staring at the roof, obviously trying to appear disinterested. That will not do – Pippo needs his full attention.  
  
He slaps Riccardo’s thigh with an open palm, hard enough that the skin turns pink from the impact. Riccardo flinches away from the hand instinctively, shooting an angry look at Pippo.  
  
“You want me to do that to your ass next?” Pippo forces his voice to stay quiet, cold, threatening, as he continues, “Spank you like a disobedient kid until your buttocks are red and burning up?”  
  
Riccardo actually shivers under his hands, although Pippo is not sure whether it is from arousal or repulsion. He shakes his head nonetheless when he realizes Pippo is waiting for him to give a proper answer.  
  
“Then you better pay attention,” Pippo whispers, leaning down to talk into Riccardo’s ear again, pushing one of his hands into his hair, tugging on the soft curls pointedly.  
  
“I am paying attention, Mister,” Riccardo’s voice is dripping with venom, and for a second Pippo feels like he is doing this against Riccardo’s will. But that is just silly – Riccardo came here on his own accord, and he knows the safeword, so he is free to leave whenever he sees fit.  
  
 _”Don’t let him get to you, fruitcake. Riccardo’s a master of reading your weaknesses – you’re not forcing him to do anything, and he knows it even better than you do, so don’t let him make you feel guilty about it.”_  
  
Andrea was right when he said Pippo’s biggest weakness is that he actually  _cares_.  
  
“Not close enough,” Pippo deadpans, pulling on Riccardo’s hair to make him crane his neck, pressing his lips against his pulse point, “I’ll make you forget everything that’s around you – there’s only this bed, me, and you. Nothing else.”  
  
He bites on Riccardo’s skin right above the collar, and Riccardo lets out a short whine, squirming under Pippo’s body, pushing at his chest with his bound hands.  
  
“Should I help you to block it out?” Pippo asks Riccardo as he pulls back just enough to come face to face with him, ghosting his lips over Riccardo’s, “You’re thinking too much. That can’t be healthy.”  
  
He finds the thick dark fabric under the nearest pillow, a wide bandana he normally uses to pull his hair back while going out jogging, but tonight it will work as a fine blindfold.  
  
Pippo pulls the fabric over Riccardo’s eyes carefully, caressing his face with both hands once the blindfold is in place, “Everything okay?”  
  
He remembers how Andrea actually started panicking the other night when his sight was taken from him – vision is a playmaker’s most important weapon after all – and he needs to make sure the same will not happen with Riccardo before he continues with his plan.  
  
“Yes,” Riccardo breathes out, the word almost inaudible, and Pippo could swear he is actually leaning his cheek into his touch now. His breathing is a bit quicker than usual, but still steady, no signs of panic as far as Pippo can tell.  
  
“Good boy,” Pippo whispers, running his hands down from Riccardo’s face, caressing his neck, chest, stomach, before stroking his straining erection a couple of times, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”  
  
He gets off the bed without waiting for an answer, walking towards the door but not actually leaving the room. Instead, he sits down on a chair next to the door, studying Riccardo who is lying there, unmoving aside from clenching and unclenching his bound hands, like testing how tight the bounds are.  
  
It takes maybe three minutes before Riccardo becomes more restless, turning to his side and using his elbow to drag himself into a half-sitting position, turning his head around even though he cannot see anything, and the distress in his voice is only barely veiled now, “Pippo? Mister?”  
  
“I’m here,” Pippo assures him, standing up from his place and walking over to the wine cooler to get a bowl of ice he had put there earlier. He has argued with Andrea numerous times over the necessity of having the cooler in the bedroom, but tonight it has actually been useful.  
  
“Lay down,” it is an order, not a request, and Riccardo follows it immediately. Pippo is not quite sure if there is actual relief in his posture or if he is just pretending, giving Pippo what he is expecting, but it does not really matter at this point.  
  
This is an endurance battle, to see which one of them backs out first, and Pippo knows he cannot afford being the one giving in.  
  
He climbs on the bed again, kneeling next to Riccardo and setting the bowl of ice on the nightstand quietly. The ice is partly melted already, cubes floating in the cold water. They are better like this, more slippery with no sharp edges.  
  
Riccardo flinches slightly when Pippo touches his face with the first ice cube, running it over his cheek and then pressing it against his lips, watching as Riccardo’s tongue darts out hesitantly to taste the melting ice, checking what the unfamiliar object is.  
  
There is a small red bruise on Riccardo’s neck where Pippo bit him earlier, and Pippo leans in to suck on the same spot as he slides the ice down Riccardo’s jaw line and into the crook of his neck. Riccardo whimpers in discomfort when Pippo bites the skin again, harder this time.  
  
The bruise is even clearer now, blood clotting under the pale skin. Pippo presses the ice against the hot, sensitive skin, and Riccardo jerks back on instinct, his movement tugging on the leash, the leather collar rubbing against his neck.  
  
“Better not move too much,” Pippo instructs in a low voice, caressing the skin under the collar soothingly, “You wouldn’t wanna choke yourself, now would you?”  
  
Riccardo does not answer outright, but he stills under Pippo’s hands, allowing him to continue trailing his neck with the ice cube that is melting fast against the heated skin.  
  
Riccardo shivers noticeably as Pippo drags his blunt nails over his collarbone, towards his chest, before following the trail with the ice, soothing the scratched skin.  
  
Droplets of melted water are sliding down to the hollow of Riccardo’s neck, pooling in there, and Pippo cannot resist the temptation to lean in and lick it off, keeping the contact chaste, gentle, waiting until Riccardo relaxes again.  
  
When he hears Riccardo letting out a long relieved breath, Pippo slips his hand lower, pinching Riccardo’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and Riccardo almost jumps in the air, gritting out a surprised “Fuck!”  
  
“I intend to,” Pippo mumbles against the warm skin, abandoning Riccardo’s neck and moving to brush his tongue over his other nipple, keeping the contact gentle in contrast to his fingers that are twisting the other deliberately hard.  
  
He puts the almost melted ice into his mouth, letting it dissolve on his tongue before licking the nipple again, the cold sensation making Riccardo tremble even as he tries to squirm away from Pippo’s hand on his chest.  
  
His nipples are hardening under Pippo’s touches, his reactions getting more intense by the minute, and Pippo wishes he had prepared nipple clamps for tonight. Maybe next time, if there is even going to be one.  
  
Pippo sucks on the small nub under his lips one more time before pulling away, pinching the other one hard as he reaches for the ice bowl again. He moves his hand away too as he licks the new ice cube, making sure there are no sharp edges.  
  
Riccardo is left heaving on the bed, the trembling of his body not stopping even though the touches are gone, his nipples hard and his cock jutting against his belly, straining against the bounds around it.  
  
He looks absolutely delicious like this – blindfolded and painfully aroused – and not for the first time Pippo understands why he has been able to control his previous managers the way he did. Pippo might be in danger himself if it was not for Andrea keeping him in check.  
  
He waits until the trembling subsides, studying the way Riccardo forces his breathing back to normal, before he takes the ice cube from his lips and without a warning presses it against the nipple he was pinching earlier.  
  
Riccardo arches his back immediately, hissing sharply at the cold sensation, biting his lip as if trying to keep other sounds escaping from his lips.  
  
“Let me hear you,” Pippo orders quietly as he rubs the ice against the sensitive nub, cooling the skin around it, reaching his other hand to caress Riccardo’s lower lip with his thumb until he opens his mouth and lets Pippo push the finger in momentarily.  
  
“You’re not the master of your body now, Riccardo,” Pippo tells him matter-of-factly as he pulls his hand back, dropping it to stroke the dark bruise on Riccardo’s neck, “Never forget that.”  
  
Riccardo whimpers at the pain, although he makes only a minimal effort to pull away from Pippo’s touches anymore.  
  
Pippo leans down to suck on his nipple again, carefully biting it and then immediately replacing his mouth with the ice cube, admiring the result as Riccardo jerks back violently, pulling on the leash again, but the moan escaping his lips is revealing no pain whatsoever.  
  
He continues moving down Riccardo’s body, tracing his abs with his lips, nibbling and sucking on the skin, biting until he is sure there will be marks remaining, and then following the trail of saliva with the ice cube, rubbing it carefully against each mark.  
  
The shivering of Riccardo’s body is intensifying as Pippo moves closer to his erection, dibbing the ice cube into his navel and leaving it there for a while, cold water gathering around it.  
  
He touches the awaiting cock with just two fingers, but the contact is enough to make Riccardo buck his hips upwards into the touch demandingly.  
  
“Don’t move,” Pippo snaps at him, slapping his thigh again, aiming for the same spot he hit earlier, satisfied when Riccardo recoils from his hand with a gasp, “Everything at a good time; stop being so impatient.”  
  
“I’m not—” Riccardo starts to say but cannot get any further before a high-pitched whimper falls from his lips as Pippo moves the ice cube to his crotch, sliding it over his hot shaft slowly, water drops falling down the length.  
  
He is pulling at the ties around his wrists now, and for the first time it is actually visible that being tied down bothers him. He is slipping, the control finally shifting towards Pippo for real.  
  
Pippo pushes off the urge to comfort him. Instead, he strokes Riccardo’s balls with his free hand while moving the ice closer to the tip of his cock, rubbing it against the foreskin, and he is rewarded with a breathless moan.  
  
“Spread your legs,” Pippo instructs as he moves closer to Riccardo, settling between his legs as soon as he follows the command. He reluctantly moves the ice away from Riccardo’s cock, taking it between his own lips instead to free both his hands.  
  
He takes a hold of Riccardo’s hips and pulls them up from the bed, his buttocks resting against Pippo’s still clothed thighs, his both legs instinctively wrapping around Pippo’s hips to make the position more comfortable.  
  
This way he can just see Riccardo’s entrance below his bound testicles, a puckered hole clenching in anticipation. Riccardo is trembling against Pippo’s body, both from cold and arousal.  
  
“What do you want me to do?” he asks in a low voice, turning the ice cube on his tongue, waiting for it to melt enough for what he wants to do next, “Tell me, Riccardo.”  
  
“I want nothing from you,” Riccardo retorts defiantly, but his body and tongue are speaking different languages, his legs wrapping even tighter around Pippo’s midsection, “Go to hell, Mister.”  
  
“No one’s forcing you to do this,” Pippo reminds him softly as he takes the ice from his mouth – melted into a small and round shape now – “You’re free to walk out whenever you want.”  
  
He waits a few seconds, but Riccardo only huffs and turns his head to the side, no safeword forthcoming.  
  
When Pippo presses the ice against Riccardo’s entrance, the captain actually trashes against him, the sensitive flesh spasming from the freezing sensation, “Fucking hell!”  
  
“Such language,” Pippo clicks his tongue in fake disappointment, doing his best to hold his laughter. He is lucky Riccardo is blindfolded, because keeping his voice in check is much easier than schooling his whole face.  
  
“What do you exp— shit!” Riccardo’s complaints are interrupted again as Pippo pushes the small piece of ice through the entrance, violent shudders running through his whole body.  
  
“No complaints, didn’t I tell you?” Pippo tuts softly, rubbing his wet fingers against the gaping hole, waiting for the ice to melt inside Riccardo, “Or do you really want me to spank you that much?”  
  
Riccardo does not reply, just rolls his hips in attempt to get rid of the unfamiliar feeling inside him, his ass rubbing against Pippo’s crotch, reminding him of his own erection that he has managed to ignore until now.  
  
“You’ve been such a good boy tonight, I might just let you off easy for now,” Pippo leans in to whisper the words against Riccardo’s ear, Riccardo’s cock pressed up between their bodies for a moment, “You just need to ask for it. What do you want me to do?”  
  
He finds the lubricant from the nightstand – silicon-based, different brand from what Pippo and Andrea usually use, meant specifically for prolonged penetration – and he does not wait for Riccardo’s reply before pouring some of the clear gel over his fingers and reaching for his entrance again.  
  
Riccardo’s insides feel weirdly cold when he pushes the first finger through the ring of muscle, drops of cold water from the melted ice dripping from him. There is barely any resistance even as Pippo pushes the whole finger inside Riccardo in one go, coating him with the lube.  
  
Riccardo moans at the more familiar sensation of being fingered, pushing against Pippo’s hand probably more out of reflex than intentionally. He clenches around the digit, but it is obvious he is not in pain.  
  
“What do you want, Riccardo?” Pippo repeats the question as he works another finger alongside the first one, circling them inside Riccardo, stretching him intentionally slowly, watching as Riccardo’s cock twitches when he brushes against a particularly sensitive spot.  
  
Riccardo’s breathing is getting heavy, and he has stopped even pretending that he is not enjoying this, rolling his hips against Pippo, like trying to get the fingers deeper even though they are buried all the way in already.  
  
“I want you to fuck me, Mister,” the whisper is just barely audible, a soft plea to end this, but it is all Pippo needs: he opens his pants and pushes them down to his thighs along with his underwear, just low enough to pull out his cock and coat it with the lube.  
  
Riccardo lets out a soft gasp when Pippo pulls out his fingers and takes a firmer hold on his hips, pulling him up his thighs until he can position his tip against the slicked hole, both Riccardo’s legs wound around his waist now to stop himself from falling down.  
  
The first push is slow and shallow, Pippo waiting for the tight clenching of Riccardo’s body to subside before settling for a languid rhythm, pumping into Riccardo’s body in short thrusts.  
  
It takes a handful of thrust before Riccardo moans out loud, his feet pressed against the backs of Pippo’s thighs, trying to pull him deeper with every push.  
  
“Please?” Riccardo is mouthing the words silently, and Pippo can feel the clenching around him getting tighter, a sign of an approaching orgasm. But Riccardo is not quite there yet, not with the ties around his cock and balls holding back his release.  
  
Just as Pippo had planned.  
  
“Don’t come,” he gasps out the command as he reaches a hand towards Riccardo’s chest, playing with his still hard nipple, pulling on it hard enough that it must be painful, “You’re not allowed to come, Riccardo.”  
  
Riccardo whimpers, his bound hands balled into tight fists, pulling on the leather straps in desperate attempt to free himself so he could touch his straining cock.  
  
Pippo comes inside Riccardo after a few more thrusts, the clenching around him pushing him over the edge sooner than he was expecting, but it does not matter, not really.  
  
He pulls out of Riccardo almost reluctantly, dipping his fingers between his legs to feel his cum dripping out of the still gaping hole. Riccardo is trembling even harder now, so close to coming and yet unable to without any stimulation on his cock.  
  
“That was nice,” Pippo notes in feigned innocence as he takes a hold of Riccardo’s legs and releases himself from their hold, “Maybe another round later, huh?”  
  
Riccardo curses under his breath, trying to turn to his side in order to buck himself against the bed and bring himself over the edge.  
  
Pippo stops him by slapping his butt hard – maybe even harder than actually necessary, just because he can – reminding him of the rules again, “No coming until I say you can come.”  
  
Riccardo stops his movements, his chest heaving as he struggles to breathe properly, his inhales shallow and quick. Pippo almost feels sorry for him, but ‘almost’ is not enough to change his plans for tonight.  
  
Riccardo’s hole is dripping with cum and lube mixed together, but Pippo squeezes some more lubricant on his hand anyways, wanting to make sure Riccardo will not dry up during the night.  
  
Riccardo groans loudly when Pippo pushes two fingers inside him again, squirming under his touch.  
  
The butt plug is smaller than Pippo’s cock – it should be small enough not to hurt Riccardo even after prolonged use – and it slips in without any trouble when Pippo replaces his fingers with it. There is a remote control for the vibration too, although Pippo doubts Riccardo could take more prostate stimulation without coming right away.  
  
“You’re gonna sleep like this,” he tells Riccardo quietly, brushing his lips against the shell of his ear, caressing his belly affectionately, “And if you’re a good boy, then maybe – maybe – I’ll let you go tomorrow. But no coming until then – don’t even try, because I’ll know.”  
  
He brushes his fingers against Riccardo’s balls to make sure they are still warm, the bonds not too tight, as he attaches a small bell to the leather strap.  
  
“I don’t want to hear that bell tonight,” he whispers into Riccardo’s ear, pulling his hand away immediately when Riccardo tries to press against the chaste touch, the bell chiming happily, “I assure you, you don’t want me to punish you.”  
  
“And this is not a punishment, how?” Riccardo grits out, turning his face towards Pippo challengingly even though he is still blindfolded.  
  
“I fucked you, just like you requested,” Pippo counters with a laugh, and then he pulls the bandana away from Riccardo’s eyes, finally meeting the angry blue gaze, “Now it’s your turn to follow my orders again.”  
  
He drops a chaste kiss on Riccardo’s lips before he can say anything more, and then he gets off the bed, leaving Riccardo there, “Now go to sleep. I’m gonna be just there in the corner, doing some work stuff before joining you, okay?”  
  
Pippo is honestly surprised when Riccardo does not offer any more protests: instead, he just huffs and turns to his side with his back turned to Pippo, the bell jingling with the movement, but then there is only silence as Pippo pulls his laptop out of his bag and gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Additional disclaimer: I’ve never tried BDSM myself, and I wouldn’t advice you to try anything mentioned here without making your own research on the subject first. There, I said it: I’m free of all responsibility.  
> \- The dates of Milan’s and Juve’s first matches are from their official sites – Juve on Saturday and Milan on Sunday – and there might be changes to it before the season actually starts. Hence the ‘fiction’ part of fanfiction.  
> \- Some of the stuff Pippo does to Riccardo is not actually something beginners would typically try during the first night, but for the sake of the story, how about we agree that with Riccardo’s track record – with Seedorf and god knows who else – he can take it?
> 
> \- Feedback would be extremely welcome because I’m honestly going out on a limb here, since I’ve never written anything like this before! Just let me know if I’m doing something right ~~or wrong~~ , please?


	4. Chapter 4

It takes Riccardo ages to even nod off: his aching hard-on is not going down, the binds around his cock feel too tight and the toy in his butt rubs his insides with even the slightest movement.  
  
He lies still, listening to the sound of Pippo’s fingers rhythmically tapping on the keyboard of his laptop. The sound stops every now and then, and Riccardo could swear he can feel Pippo’s gaze on his back.  
  
Riccardo tries to will his erection down, digging his nails into his palms painfully, but to no avail. He is still wide awake by the time Pippo puts the laptop away and slips into the bed next to him.  
  
When he finally does fall asleep, Pippo’s calm breathing in his ears lulling him into a light slumber, all he can dream of is more sex: long fingers gripping his hips, lips sucking on his neck until there is no unbruised skin left, a cock buried deep inside him, a hand fondling his balls…  
  
Riccardo blinks his eyes slowly as he unwillingly slips back into wakefulness, because that last sensation was not a dream – someone really is caressing his balls in the dark room.  
  
“Good morning, Riccardo. Sleep well?”  
  
Riccardo can barely make out Andrea’s smirk in the inadequate lighting, but he is fairly sure he could recognize it from his voice alone.  
  
“You know it’s rude to touch people without their consent,” he grumbles instead of answering the inquiry, although his message might come across clearer if he was not pushing his hips towards Andrea’s hand as he speaks – even if he had managed to force the erection down earlier, the effort is obviously undone now.  
  
“It’s also rude to fuck other people’s spouses without permission, but you don’t see me complaining,” Andrea retorts, running his fingers over Riccardo’s shaft experimentally, “And I’m just making sure you’re still working down there. Keeping yourself tied up like that can’t be healthy.”  
  
Riccardo opens his mouth to reply something decidedly impolite, but Pippo’s grumbling from the other side of the bed interrupts him: “It’s not even five yet. Shut up and come to bed, Andrea.”  
  
“Whatever you say, fruitcake,” Andrea answers lightly, reluctantly pulling his hand away from Riccardo’s cock, earning a displeased whine from him, because  _you can’t just do that, not when he’s been dying to come the whole night!_  
  
“Later,” Andrea whispers to Riccardo, reaching to pet Riccardo’s hair. Riccardo ducks his head away from his touch, mouthing “you wish” to him without actually saying anything out loud.  
  
Andrea chuckles under his breath, and without another word he gets up from the floor where he was kneeling, rounding the bed to join Pippo on the other side.  
  
Riccardo feels the mattress dipping under Andrea’s weight, and then Pippo’s arm brushes against his back as he makes more room for his partner, but there is no more contact after that, the couple fitting easily on just one half of the bed.  
  
Riccardo curses Andrea in his mind when he can hear them both falling asleep, leaving Riccardo awake with a raging hard-on once again.  
  
The butt plug suddenly feels bigger than when Pippo first inserted it, and Riccardo has to adjust his position to stop it from rubbing his insides uncomfortably. It brushes against his prostate as a result, and Riccardo has to suppress a moan as his erection grows even harder.  
  
One of the men behind him grumbles in their sleep, and then Riccardo feels someone’s hand brushing against his ass, caressing one buttock. Riccardo tries to move farther away from the touch, only to be stopped by the leash around his neck.  
  
Great, now there is no way he is going to sleep for the rest of the night.  
  
Why is he even doing this, again?  
  
Riccardo had been so sure Pippo was not going to go through with his plans despite his earlier promises – or were they threats? He had seen how much the coach was struggling to stay in character when Riccardo first arrived, unused to the role of complete dominance he was trying to emulate.  
  
And that is it; that is the weakness Riccardo needs to take an advantage of. Let Pippo push him until he crosses the line, until he cannot keep up the appearances anymore; wait until Pippo backs out of the challenge, and then he will have the coach wrapped around his finger.  
  
Riccardo is vaguely worried about Andrea’s role in all of this, because he is among the very few people Riccardo has never been able to read. But what could he do when he is hardly there most of the time? It is merely an obstacle, nothing more.  
  
He dozes off maybe an hour later, exhaustion washing over him even though the pestering erection is not going away despite his best efforts.  
  
  
  
Riccardo is startled awake by a sudden vibration inside him, the butt plug sending quivers through his whole body until they settle between his legs, his cock twitching painfully.  
  
“This thing is fun. Why haven’t we tried this before, fruitcake?”  
  
There is light in the room now, sunlight seeping inside between the still drawn curtains, and judging from Andrea’s chipper voice, he has been awake for a while already. How long did Riccardo sleep, exactly?  
  
“Fuck,” he hisses when the vibration inside him intensifies, the plug brushing against his prostate when he pulls his legs towards his chest instinctively.  
  
“Good morning, Riccardo. Sleep well?” Andrea repeats his words from earlier, patting Riccardo’s butt playfully, ignoring the curses Riccardo grits out at him in return, “Enjoying the remote control? Thought it’d be a nice thing to wake up to.”  
  
“Stop bullying him, Andrea; he’s not your toy!” Pippo yells from another room – an attached bathroom, if Riccardo had to hazard a guess.  
  
“He’s always been the selfish one,” Andrea whispers to Riccardo as he turns the vibration off, allowing Riccardo to turn from his side to his back, just enough to see Andrea instead of just hearing him, “Terrible at sharing his toys.”  
  
“Does that apply to you as well?” Riccardo asks softly, immediately recognizing his chance of finding out a bit more about his coach, “He doesn’t share you?”  
  
“That’s not his call to make, is it?” Andrea retorts immediately, fiddling with the small remote control, and the plug pulsates inside Riccardo again, making him jerk his hips up on reflex even though there is nothing to push against, “And even if it was, there’d be no difference, because I’m his regardless of who I fuck. And he’s mine. No sharing.”  
  
Andrea fixes a sharp look at Riccardo: it is a challenge, a warning, but also a simple fact.  
  
Riccardo has no place in here, no chance of breaking them up, so there is no risk in letting him take a glimpse into their lives. Riccardo knows this as well as Andrea does.  
  
“And what if someone outs you? What’d you do then?”  
  
Andrea turns up the vibration, grinning at Riccardo when he slumps against the mattress, not quite able to muffle the whimper that escapes his lips.  
  
“You wouldn’t do that; there’d be no upside for you, only the risk of being found out yourself.”  
  
“Sure about that?” Riccardo gasps out, wriggling his hips in attempt to push the invading toy out of his body without success, the bell attached to the binds around his cock chiming annoyingly. The plug brushes against his prostate again, sending new shivers up his spine.  
  
“Positive,” Andrea assures him, and then there is a hand on Riccardo’s cock, circling his flesh loosely, the contact not nearly enough to push him over the edge, “You always look out for yourself first; there’s no way you’d risk it.”  
  
Andrea is right, of course. It is the exactly same logic that Clarence was lacking when he thought Riccardo would take their battle into public – the reason why Riccardo could control him so easily.  
  
The memory of his previous manager reminds Riccardo of another thing he has been forgetting, “How’s Max, by the way? Missing me at all?”  
  
He is proud of his own ability to form logical sentences even with the butt plug vibrating inside him and Andrea’s hand on his cock.  
  
“He should just be happy he got out, don’t you think?” Andrea mutters as he leans down to ghost his lips above Riccardo’s, “But yeah, I believe he’s not quite over you.”  
  
“I’ve been told I’m hard to forget,” Riccardo whispers, squirming under Andrea’s touch when he grasps his cock a bit tighter. He wants to say more, maybe taunt Andrea a bit over his new manager, but Andrea shuts him up by kissing him.  
  
The kiss feels too gentle, too considerate, after all the teasing. Riccardo parts his lips to allow Andrea to push his tongue into his mouth. He responds by carefully caressing Andrea’s tongue with his own, just barely enough to deepen the kiss.  
  
It feels almost  _loving_ , though Riccardo knows better than to believe anything Andrea says or does.  
  
“You know I’m gonna break him, right?” Riccardo breathes out when Andrea pulls out of the kiss, his breath lingering on Riccardo’s lips, “He cares too much.”  
  
“Go ahead and try,” Andrea retorts, brushing his thumb against the tip of Riccardo’s cock, making him gasp softly, “You’re gonna fail, though. He’s already winning you over; you trust him.”  
  
“No I don’t,” Riccardo argues quietly – he trusts no one but himself – bucking his hips into Andrea’s touch, his eyes fluttering shut as he can feel the orgasm approaching.  
  
“What did I say about coming without my permission,” Pippo’s voice is not loud as he walks into the room, but it still fills Riccardo’s senses immediately, his body shuddering at the reminder of the previous night.  
  
He is so close, just a bit more, just one more stroke— and then Andrea’s hand is gone, and so is the vibration inside him. Riccardo blinks his eyes open, finds the remote control in Pippo’s hands.  
  
Pippo is kissing Andrea, an open-mouthed kiss, their tongues visible as they tangle around each other, wet, hot, dirty, and so very intimate. Riccardo may not understand what  _love_  is, but even he can tell this is something special.  
  
For a second Riccardo actually doubts himself – can he really beat Pippo when he has Andrea on his side – but then he pushes the doubts away, because he always wins. Always.  
  
It might be his biggest battle to date, but when he does win this, he will make sure to break whatever it is that holds Pippo and Andrea together. He will break  _them_ , not just Pippo.  
  
“And you. What did tell you about him not being your toy?” Pippo asks Andrea when they finally break the kiss, throwing an amused glance at Riccardo, his arm wound around Andrea’s waist possessively.  
  
“I wasn’t bullying him; we were just having a nice chat,” Andrea insists, dropping a few more kisses around Pippo’s face before kissing his lips again, this time slower, gentler.  
  
Pippo just rolls his eyes when he releases his hold on Andrea and walks over to Riccardo’s side, sitting next to him on the bed, looking down at him, taking in his straining erection and heaving chest before finally meeting his eyes.  
  
“I should punish you for disobeying my orders,” Pippo says softly, running his fingers over the bruises littering Riccardo’s chest and stomach, putting enough pressure on them to make flashes of pain rush through his body with each touch, “I told you not to even try, and yet you would’ve let Andrea fuck you if it meant getting off.”  
  
Riccardo wants to ask Pippo if the worst part in that would have been him getting off or him fucking Andrea, but he figures it would just look like he is practically begging for a punishment – which he is not, obviously.  
  
“It’s not like I could move away from him,” he still cannot resist arguing a bit. Pippo is expecting him to stay defiant, so he is just giving him what he wants without going overboard, “You should just blame him.”  
  
“Look at you, still talking back,” Pippo smirks, and then he pokes the bite mark on Riccardo’s neck. It  _hurts_ , much more so than Riccardo was expecting, but the pain shoots straight to his cock, making him even harder for some reason.  
  
Riccardo does not enjoy pain, even if he has learned over the years to endure it a lot more than an average person. Even with Clarence, it was always the feeling of control that got him off, not the roughhousing itself.  
  
But right now, he is not in control, so there is no reason why Pippo’s poking should be arousing to him. It worries Riccardo, maybe more than it should.  
  
“Pay attention,” Pippo tells him in a low voice, grabbing a handful of Riccardo’s hair and pulling his head up from the pillows, holding his gaze threateningly, unblinking, long enough that Riccardo’s eyes start blurring with unwanted tears.  
  
Riccardo slumps down on the bed with a relieved gasp when Pippo loosens his hold, but the manager gives him no time to collect himself as the unties the leash from the headboard, wrapping the leather strap around his hand until he can easily tug on the blasted collar around Riccardo’s neck.  
  
“Turn around,” he orders simply, and Riccardo has no choice but to follow the command as the collar digs into his windpipe, the metal of the small locks cold against his heated skin, “On your knees, face down.”  
  
Riccardo glances at Andrea as Pippo guides him to sit up and then to lean forwards, his bound hands pressed against the mattress and ass in the air. Andrea is couching on the floor, leaning his elbows on the bed, eyeing Riccardo curiously, not at all bothered by Pippo’s actions. Of course not.  
  
Pippo has moved behind Riccardo, rubbing his underwear-clad front against his buttocks. His free hand settles on his upper thigh, while the other still holds the leash, forcing Riccardo to keep his head up, his neck and shoulders stiff, unable to relax against the mattress.  
  
“And I thought I could let you off easy today,” Pippo says quietly, berating, brushing the tips of his fingers against Riccardo’s bound cock, as if reminding him who is the boss here, before pulling his hand away completely.  
  
Riccardo hisses sharply when the plug inside him starts vibrating again, his legs almost giving out under him because the new angle makes the toy stimulate his prostate much harder than before.  
  
The first slap against his left buttock takes Riccardo by surprise, and he tries to jerk away from it, tugging on the leash painfully.  
  
“Stop that, you’re gonna strangle yourself,” Pippo warns him, and Riccardo feels him turning the vibration up; whether to make him feel more comfortable or to make the sensations more intense, Riccardo has no idea.  
  
The next impact – this one on the right cheek – is a bit harder, but this time Riccardo is prepared for it, only letting out a soft hiss at the pain. A few more open-handed slaps, each harder than the previous – or is it Riccardo’s ass growing more tender with the spanking – until Riccardo’s whole body is shaking with arousal and he cannot hold back his moans any longer.  
  
“He’s enjoying it,” Andrea notes needlessly, studying Riccardo’s face with a knowing smirk, “What kind of a punishment is that?”  
  
“He’s enjoying it because he knows he deserves it,” Pippo answers, now fondling Riccardo’s buttocks, his touches just a bit too heavy, sending new sparks of painful pleasure into Riccardo’s cock, “Don’t you, Riccardo?”  
  
Riccardo does not answer right away, which makes Pippo tug hard on the leash, repeating his question, “Don’t you?”  
  
“Yes, Mister,” he whispers, because it is what Pippo wants to hear. He can feel two pairs of eyes on him even without looking up, and he cannot remember ever feeling so vulnerable – he always controls his own body, no matter what, but now even that is betraying him.  
  
It must be the arousal, Riccardo tells himself, it is just because he has been turned on for the whole night without being able to come that all physical contact is starting to feel sexual. It is not Pippo controlling him.  
  
“You’ve got the safeword, right?” Andrea asks, and it takes Riccardo a while to realize the question is aimed at him. Andrea is telling him to give up and run away.  
  
“Fuck you,” he grumbles, meeting Andrea’s eyes angrily. He will never admit that the same thought had passed his own mind just seconds earlier. Not because of the pain, of course not, but because for a while he had actually felt helpless.  
  
Pippo slaps his ass one more time, “Language, Riccardo. We’re not brutes here.”  
  
“Fuck you too,” Riccardo retorts, because he happens to know Andrea curses much more often than him in normal circumstances, and Riccardo is definitely the least of a brute here right now.  
  
“If you insist,” Pippo lets out a breathy chuckle, rubbing soothing circles around Riccardo’s burning backside, “Who’d you prefer: me or Andrea? Or both?”  
  
He takes a hold of the butt plug and pulls it out without a warning, the sudden feeling of emptiness making Riccardo whine out loud.  
  
“Both it is, then,” Pippo decides for him, pushing two slicked fingers inside his still lubricated hole, the digits feeling small after the plug. He adds third finger and even more lube – Riccardo feels like he is actually dripping by now – before he pulls his hand away and replaces it with his cock.  
  
Riccardo lets out a guttural moan when Pippo pushes through his entrance, sliding into him slowly, the well stretched and slicked hole taking him in without resistance. Riccardo clenches his muscles deliberately around the cock, the friction feeling almost too little after the pain from the spanking.  
  
“More,” he gasps out as Pippo jerks his hips back and thrusts into him faster, setting up an erratic rhythm. Pippo pulls on the leash in response, like a wordless warning, the collar rubbing against the bruise on Riccardo’s neck.  
  
Andrea has moved to sit on the bed now, right in front of Riccardo, and he grasps a hold of Riccardo’s chin, pulling his face up properly, “How much more can you take, Riccardo?”  
  
He pushes his boxers down, revealing his hard cock. It is almost at Riccardo’s eyelevel as Andrea adjusts his position, brushes the tip against Riccardo’s lips, “You know what to do, don’t you?”  
  
Riccardo cannot do much else but part his lips and allow Andrea to buck himself into his mouth.  
  
His bound hands are aching, stuck between his chest and the mattress. Andrea’s hands on his face ease the pain in his neck at least, supporting his head so he can relax without pulling on the leash too hard.  
  
Pippo hits his prostate and Riccardo moans around Andrea’s cock, arching his back as he tries to push back against Pippo’s thrusts.  
  
“You can take more than this, don’t you?” Pippo’s words register in Riccardo’s brain belatedly, only when he stops moving, his cock buried fully inside Riccardo, “You can take both of us inside you; fucking you until you forget even your own name.”  
  
Riccardo realizes what ‘both’ means only when Pippo starts working a finger inside him alongside his cock, and the surprise makes him choke around Andrea’s cock, and he gags around the shaft a couple more times before Andrea pulls out of his mouth completely.  
  
Too much, it is too much.  
  
Pippo has two fingers inside him now, pressed against his length. It does not actually feel that bad – Riccardo has had worse, that is for sure – but it is the thought of being fucked by Pippo and Andrea at the same time that makes Riccardo uncomfortable.  
  
It would be too humiliating, submitting to them, letting them do as they wished—  
  
There is a press of lips against Riccardo’s back, Pippo trailing the bumps of his spine gently as he slides in the third finger. Riccardo feels so full, and his cock twitches with interest, like telling him he cannot stop this now, not after coming so far.  
  
Let them hurt him, tore his insides. Pippo will feel the guilt later, and then Riccardo will have the upper hand. Physical harm will heal – Riccardo cannot play before November in any case – emotional scars will be harder to handle.  
  
Pippo is still stretching him, wriggling his fingers and rubbing Riccardo’s insides. He kisses the small of Riccardo’s back soothingly before straightening up again, “Sit up, Riccardo.”  
  
Andrea has to take a hold of Riccardo’s shoulders to help him up, pushing him backwards until he is sitting in Pippo’s lap with his cock still deep inside him, his back pressed against Pippo’s chest and his legs spread, like offering himself to Andrea.  
  
“You okay?” Pippo asks, his lips brushing Riccardo’s ear. The caring tone is there again, reminding Riccardo why he is allowing this. It is all part of the game, nothing more.  
  
“I will be,” Riccardo whispers, turning his face sideways so he can focus on Pippo’s expression instead of Andrea’s smug grin when kneels between Riccardo’s legs, straddling Pippo’s thighs, “Once you let me come, that is.”  
  
“All in good time, Riccardo,” Pippo chuckles softly as he wraps his arm around Riccardo’s shoulders, the leash still wrapped around his hand, pulling him as close as possible as they lie back against the pillows.  
  
Pippo pulls his fingers out of Riccardo only when Andrea pours some more lube on his own hand and picks up from where his partner left off, pushing two fingers inside Riccardo.  
  
He takes his time preparing Riccardo, adding lubricant over and over, while Pippo keeps brushing his lips against Riccardo’s ear, temple, cheek, hair, wherever he can reach. It is too gentle, nothing like what Riccardo was expecting.  
  
And then Andrea finally pulls his fingers out and positions his cock against Riccardo’s entrance.  
  
Riccardo closes his eyes, braces himself, but the burning pain still takes him by surprise when Andrea starts pushing through the ring of muscle.  
  
“Shit!” he gasps out, squirming against Pippo’s chest, trying to pull away from the intrusion, but Andrea keeps a fast hold on his spread thighs, stopping him from moving his hips.  
  
“You need to relax, Riccardo,” Pippo instructs him quietly, wrapping his other arm around Riccardo as well, stroking his bound hands gently, “It’s not that much bigger than the fingers. It’s all in your head.”  
  
Riccardo grasps Pippo’s hand between his own desperately, the instinctive need to hold on to  _something_  much more acute than the embarrassment from the intimacy.  
  
Slowly, slowly, Riccardo’s body begins to adjust to the intrusion, the clenching of his muscles easing one by one, allowing Andrea to push his cock fully in. Riccardo still feels like he is being pulled apart, but now it is because he is filled to the brim, not because he is in actual pain.  
  
“Is it okay?” Pippo asks him, rubbing his nose against Riccardo’s cheek, “Remember we can stop anytime you want. Just say it.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Riccardo tries to say, but the words get stuck in his throat. Pippo understands him nonetheless, offering him a smile and a kiss on the cheek.  
  
Andrea starts moving carefully, the pressure inside Riccardo easing momentarily before he pushes back in, filling him again. Riccardo cannot actually feel the movements, all he knows is that at one moment he is full, then he is not, and then the pressure is back again.  
  
Pippo groans against Riccardo’s ear, his hold around Riccardo’s shoulders tightening. Andrea is doing all the work, his pace picking up with each thrust, but the friction must be incredible for Pippo as well – much better than for Riccardo, probably.  
  
The bell attached to Riccardo’s cock is jingling with Andrea’s each push, and Riccardo tries to focus on that instead of the two shafts inside him – the feeling is too intense, a terrible sense of submission, a sense of being used.  
  
Then Andrea’s cock rubs against his prostate, and for a second Riccardo forgets everything he was thinking about, everything he was feeling, just moaning and whimpering, grasping Pippo’s hand tighter, traitorous tears gathering in his eyes.  
  
Andrea takes a hold of Riccardo’s healthy leg and pushes it up against his chest, changing the angle of entrance, putting more strength into his thrusts, obviously getting closer to his climax.  
  
“Andrea, I’m gonna come,” Pippo’s breath is brushing against Riccardo’s ear, and then Andrea leans down, catching Pippo’s lips in a bruising kiss, his beard scratching Riccardo’s face.  
  
Andrea and Pippo come almost at the same time, their groans swallowed into the kiss as Andrea halts his movements inside Riccardo. Then there is the familiar feeling of sperm seeping into his hole, although even that feels more intense than usual, because Riccardo had been so sure nothing more could fit inside him anymore.  
  
Riccardo’s cock is pressed between his and Andrea’s bellies, and he can feel the orgasm building up inside him, waiting just around the corner, only the binds around his balls keeping him from coming right then.  
  
He lets out a shaky breath when Andrea pulls out, Pippo’s softening cock slipping out along with him, and the sudden feeling of emptiness is horrible, unfair, unbearable. He can feel the cum dripping out of his hole and down his thighs.  
  
“I need to come,” he whispers, glancing at Andrea only briefly before turning his pleading gaze to Pippo, who sits up slowly, taking Riccardo with him, his arms still wound around him.  
  
“Ask nicely,” the manager tells him, nibbling his earlobe between the words.  
  
“Please Mister, I need to come,” Riccardo’s erection is actually painful now, feeling like it might burst from just one touch, “Please let me come. Pippo please.”  
  
“Well, since you did behave so well today…”  
  
The cold feeling of metal against his skin barely registers in Riccardo’s mind when Andrea cuts the leather straps around his cock, because all his attention is fixed on the feeling of Pippo’s long fingers wrapping around his shaft and the powerful waves orgasm that wash over him after just two strokes.  
  
He moans loudly, his whole body shaking with the climax as he spills his seed over Pippo’s fingers. Once it is over, he slumps against Pippo’s chest, completely spent, his mind delightfully blank for the first time in ages.  
  
“That’s a good boy,” Pippo coos into his ear, twisting the leash around his fingers and tugging Riccardo into a chaste kiss, just a brush of lips against his.  
  
Riccardo can feel Andrea working on the ties around his wrists, cutting the straps one by one until he is free, his hands dropping into his lap, the painful tingling rushing down his arms as the blood flow returns to normal.  
  
“You should probably take a shower,” Pippo suggests quietly, finally releasing his hold around Riccardo, although not pushing him away just yet, letting him rest for a while longer, “And then you might wanna sleep some before heading home.”  
  
Pippo unlocks the padlock holding the leash in place, leaving only the collar that feels impossibly heavy around Riccardo’s neck, “Remember, you need to come to me if you want to take it off.”  
  
That does it: the afterglow rushes out of Riccardo’s body within seconds, and he pulls away from Pippo forcefully, throwing a cold look at him as he stands up, ignoring the pain in his injured leg and the exhaustion gripping his limbs.  
  
He limps into the bathroom – half because of his leg, half because of his sore ass – and takes a quick shower, trying to wash away as much of the cum and lube from his hole as possible.  
  
“I’m going home,” he informs Pippo and Andrea who are still lying on the bed when he returns to the bedroom, “See you around, Mister.”  
  
His clothes are exactly where he left them in the lobby, a messy pile on the floor. He pulls them on quickly, his hand lingering on the leather collar for a moment too long before he pulls his scarf over it.  
  
Pippo might think he is intimidating Riccardo with these tricks, but Riccardo knows better than to fall for it. Sex is just sex; a collar is just a collar. There is nothing more to it.  
  
 _“You’re gonna fail, though. He’s already winning you over; you trust him.”_  
  
Riccardo pushes Andrea’s nagging voice out of his head and leaves the house, and if he slams the door a bit harder than necessary, it is only because his ass is hurting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In case someone doesn’t follow Serie A: Massimiliano “Max” Allegri, who used to coach Milan until last January, took over at Juventus after Conte resigned this summer. Allegri was also at Milan when Pirlo decided to leave, and he’s been said to have been one of the reasons behind the decision. Things seem to be fine between them at least for now, though.  
> \- Allegri was also invited to Monto’s wedding in May, and Monto has apparently told in some interview that it was Max who wanted him to join Milan in the first place, so obviously they’re in good terms despite Allegri’s sacking.  
> \- Double penetration is not everyone’s cup of tea, but it doesn’t necessarily hurt. However, from how I understand it, the pleasure for the bottom usually comes more from the feeling of being dominated than from the actual friction. That said, I obviously haven’t done it myself so I can’t say anything for sure.  
> \- Feedback would be lovely!


	5. Chapter 5

The soft knock on the door is the only alarm Pippo receives before Riccardo walks into his office without waiting for an invitation.  
  
He is wearing a light grey scarf around his neck, hiding the black collar from view. Like he is ashamed of it, even though no one has paid it any mind after the first few days.  
  
Pippo had heard people questioning the captain about the new accessory, only for him to brush off as a lost bet – as if Riccardo would actually admit to losing at anything, Pippo had thought privately. The other players had been satisfied with the explanation none the less.  
  
“Good morning Riccardo, a pleasure to have you with us for once,” Pippo greets Riccardo as he walks over to him and pulls out the small key hanging around his neck by a thin silver chain.  
  
 _The key always on him_ , so that Riccardo can ask him to take the collar off whenever necessary.  
  
And yet Riccardo only ever comes to him when he is in his office, safely behind the closed doors.  
  
“I’m here almost every day, aren’t I?” Riccardo reminds him softly, not moving from his spot in the middle of the room, angling his head to side just noticeably when Pippo pushes the scarf off and opens the lock on the collar, brushing his fingers against the cool skin as if by accident.  
  
It has been over a month, since that first time Pippo openly challenged Riccardo in this same office. Over a month of seeing each other in the training premises, usually just brief encounters, merely enough to take off the collar and exchange a few words.  
  
Only once have they repeated the sex – after the loss against Juventus, in an empty dressing room at San Siro – because Riccardo is always on guard, always expecting Pippo to do something. There is no point when Riccardo anticipates it, because then they would only be playing by Riccardo’s rules.  
  
 _”Keep him on his toes, make him wait for it. Catch him when his defences are lowered, because otherwise he’ll be the one playing you.”_  
  
Sometimes Pippo wishes Andrea was still playing for Milan.  
  
Andrea is the one who understands the way Riccardo thinks, even if Pippo knows he is not sharing everything he knows with him. Sometimes he thinks it is unfair how Andrea can just escape to Turin and leave Pippo to handle the complicated part on his own.  
  
Sometimes Pippo realizes how messed up it is that lately most of their conversations even at home are about Riccardo in one way or another.  
  
“There, you’re all ready to go,” Pippo hands the collar to Riccardo, lips ghosting over his ear. The lock has left a small imprint in the base of his neck, close to the collarbone – a red mark on the otherwise unblemished skin.  
  
Riccardo fixes the scarf back in place and turns to walk towards the door. He stops, his hand on the doorknob, not turning it just yet, but not looking back at Pippo either.  
  
“You can’t replace me,” the words are nothing more than a whisper, but they are cold, matter-of-fact, in control, “Not with Jack, not with Poli, not with that new Dutch kid. You need me, Mister.”  
  
“When did I ever say I didn’t?”  
  
Pippo’s retort is replied by silence as Riccardo slips out of the room, closing the door carefully, pointedly not slamming it. Riccardo does not need to prove his point by childish protests, because he knows his worth, knows how important he is.  
  
 _But does he? Does he really?_  
  
It has been over a month, and during that time Pippo has been studying Riccardo: the way he acts around his teammates, the way he acts around Pippo, the way he acts around Galliani and Berlusconi. He has seen all the little things that make Riccardo irreplaceable for the team, without even setting a foot on the pitch.  
  
But most importantly, Pippo has seen the way Riccardo’s mask slips when he thinks no one is looking: the flash of uncertainty after the first two victories, the briefest glimpse of almost  _relief_  when things took a turn to worse, quickly replaced by the fierce protectiveness because this Milan is  _Riccardo’s_  as much as it is Pippo’s.  
  
At some point Pippo has started to wonder how much of it really is a game to Riccardo, and how much of it is actually just his own misguided way of making sure he is needed.  
  
 _“With Riccardo, it’s never about you. It’s all about Riccardo.”_  
  
Maybe that is what Andrea has been trying to tell him all along.  
  
Pippo pushes the thought out of his mind – thinking he has figured Riccardo out is like asking for trouble, he reminds himself – and heads out of the office to join his team for the official home jersey photo shoot.  
  
The shoot goes without an incident. Riccardo is joking around with the younger players – Andrea, Stephan, Mattia – appearing relaxed, if a bit tired. All a careful act, Pippo knows, for the teammates and cameras alike.  
  
Pippo notes the extra compliment Riccardo pays for Stephan, the brief flash of admiration in the young man’s eyes, before the captain moves to his usual group of friends – Giampaolo, Daniele, Ignazio. For a second Pippo wonders how well the players know Riccardo, if they really buy the façade that seems so obviously fake to Pippo.  
  
Pippo is standing right behind Riccardo for the team photo – the manager and the captain together – and he brushes his fingers against the nape of his neck when they finally move to change locations.  
  
“Come to my office after the training’s finished,” he tells Riccardo in a low voice, not really caring if someone overhears him because it is a normal occurrence for a manager to have a meeting with his captain, but still making sure Riccardo catches the innuendo in his voice.  
  
He does not wait for Riccardo to answer him, striding across the pitch instead to have a word with Tassotti before the cameramen will usher them to take positions for the next photo.  
  
He can almost feel the blue eyes following him.  
  
  
  
Milanello quiets down after the training, most players heading home for the day, only a few remaining to follow their individual training programs. Tomorrow night they will all be there, last preparations for the next match.  
  
Pippo is on the balcony when Riccardo comes into the office, watching over the training facilities, noting a few staff members tending the grass of the large pitch and some of the  _Primavera_  kids warming up for their afternoon training.  
  
“You know, I could’ve gone home hours ago if it weren’t for you,” Riccardo says as he joins him in the warm afternoon breeze, leaning on the railing without looking at Pippo.  
  
“And yet you didn’t,” Pippo notes airily, a careless reminder that Riccardo is not forced to do anything, “You’ve never disappointed me in that sense. What a good boy you are.”  
  
He reaches out to run his fingers along the collar that is back in place, not covered this time, because there is no one to see them now. Pippo thinks he can hear Riccardo’s breath hitch just a little when he caresses the skin under the soft leather gently.  
  
“Better not think too highly of yourself,” Riccardo’s voice is still level when he replies, although he leans into the touch just an inch, almost unconsciously, “I’m not doing this to please you, Mister.”  
  
“Of course you aren’t,” Pippo agrees with a chuckle, taking half a step closer, leaning in just enough that he can press his chest against Riccardo’s back, “But you’re still doing it.”  
  
This time Riccardo’s breath definitely hitches, and Pippo can feel an involuntary shiver running down his back. This is why he had waited – let Riccardo relive those few times in his mind over and over again, gave just enough to feed the imagination, until the captain started craving for more.  
  
Pippo pulls on the collar, hard enough that the leather digs into Riccardo’s windpipe, not enough to cut the airflow but still obviously uncomfortable. There are voices from underneath them, people walking in the yard close enough to see everything that is happening on the balcony, and Riccardo’s body tenses against Pippo’s immediately.  
  
“You haven’t forgotten, have you?” Pippo asks gently once the voices have faded into distance, stroking the small of Riccardo’s back with his free hand, cupping his ass through the dark denim of his jeans, “I told you I’d have you any way I wanted. I could have you right here.”  
  
He knows Riccardo will not pull away, not after everything he has endured by now, not when he  _knows_  Pippo would never risk getting them caught for real. It is all just talk, and yet Pippo can feel Riccardo tensing up even more, like preparing to bolt.  
  
 _”Riccardo is terrified of trust – he would rather doubt everything you say than admit you’re not out to harm him.”_  
  
Pippo takes that last half a step to close the distance between them, pressing up against Riccardo’s back completely, leaning his chin against his shoulder and moving his hands to lean on the balcony rail on both sides of Riccardo.  
  
If someone walked past the building from the exactly right distance and actually bothered to pay attention to them, their position might look compromising. But there is no one close enough, and the people coming from inside would have to make an unnecessary detour just to see up to the balcony.  
  
“You’d let me do it. You’d let me fuck you right here where anyone could see us,” Pippo whispers into Riccardo’s ear, rubbing his cock against his ass, forcing Riccardo to lean his front against the railing, “Because you actually enjoy it: letting someone else control you for a change.”  
  
“You wish,” Riccardo grits out, but his voice is breathy, and he lets out a surprised whimper when Pippo slides one of his hands off the railing and cups his crotch, feeling the growing erection through the tight denim, “You wouldn’t do it, risk your job like that.”  
  
“Are you willing to take that chance?” Pippo asks softly, kissing the shell of Riccardo’s ear in a mockery of affection, stroking his cock through his jeans, just hidden from plain view by the thick railing, “I’ve got Andrea to fall back to no matter what happens. What do you have?”  
  
Riccardo lets out a surprised gasp when Pippo opens the fly of his jeans and pushes his hand inside his boxers, wrapping his long fingers around his erection.  
  
“You wouldn’t—” he starts, but his voice dies out as Pippo starts stroking him. Pippo can just see him biting his lips together to keep himself from letting out a sound even as he jerks his hips into Pippo’s hand as if by reflex.  
  
Pippo recognizes the familiar shivers of an approaching orgasm, and he pulls his hand away quickly, earning a displeased whine from Riccardo, “You’re right, I wouldn’t do it out here.”  
  
He leaves Riccardo out there to sort himself out and walks back into the office, sitting behind his desk to leaf through his notes from this week’s training.  
  
“I have a tactical meeting with the coaching staff in five minutes, so you better get going,” he tells Riccardo absent-mindedly when the captain comes inside, not even looking up from his papers as he speaks, “Don’t forget you’re to have dinner with me and  _Presidente_  tomorrow during his visit.”  
  
Riccardo does not say a word, and Pippo is not expecting him to.  
  
“Here, I want you to put this on for the meeting tomorrow,” Pippo throws a small plastic bag in Riccardo’s general direction, and to his surprise Riccardo catches it without problem, opening the bag right away.  
  
“You can’t be serious.”  
  
Pippo finally lifts his gaze from the papers, one eyebrow slightly raised as he regards Riccardo who is holding the same butt plug he had inside him a month ago, “I’m always serious. Wear it or I will have to punish you afterwards.”  
  
 _How far will you go Riccardo?_  
  
“The lube’s in the bag as well. Silicon-base, lasts much longer than the normal stuff.”  
  
Riccardo shrugs the shock away from his expression and stuffs the plastic bag into his pocket, turning his back to Pippo and marching to the door without another word. Pippo can hear him greeting Tassotti and Gianni Vio in the corridor, sounding as normal as ever.  
  
Not for the first time Pippo wonders how far he is willing to take this himself. The plan had been easy enough at the beginning: fight Riccardo by his own rules, wait for him to give in, see if you can find a common ground from there.  
  
 _”You need me, Mister.”_  
  
Riccardo had been right about that, there is no denying it. Pippo had never even tried to deny it.  
  
What he had not prepared for was the realization that Riccardo needed him as well. He might not admit it, he might fight it, he might even spit in Pippo’s face and tell him to go to hell – but in the end he always kept coming back, kept asking for more without actually saying it.  
  
 _”You need me, Mister.”_  
  
You cannot control someone without taking the responsibility for them, without growing protective of them. With each push you give them, you give them also a part of yourself.  
  
And the more you understand them, the harder it will be to let go.  
  
 _”You need me, Mister.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- First of all, I’m sorry for making you wait for so long! I’ve been really busy with work this past month, and on top of that I had a bit of a writer’s block where I didn’t quite know where I was going with this story. As a result I’ve actually changed my original idea quite a bit, but hopefully that also means I’ll be able to finish the last chapter much faster than this one.  
> \- This chapter takes place on Thursday, October 2, when they actually had the [official team photoshoot](http://youtu.be/sMaz3srm3fg?list=UUMfjzWUcC0pFw3UJlAbZVeA) before training. Berlusconi really [visited the team](http://youtu.be/tQnNVS5fLTA) the following day, although to my knowledge Monto didn’t have dinner with him and Pippo.  
> \- To those who haven’t been keeping up with Milan’s season so far: we actually started with two victories, but after that came the defeat against Juventus followed by two draws against newly promoted Cesena and Empoli.  
> \- After the Juve game, Pippo actually mentioned that it’s really hard to replace Monto on the midfield, naming Marco Van Ginkel ( _“that new Dutch kid”_ ) as one possibility. Ironically he got injured in the very next game.  
> \- Feedback would be much appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

Riccardo is cracking.  
  
No one else might be able to see it – not even Pippo – but Riccardo knows himself, and he knows he is letting himself get sucked into too deep waters.  
  
It is not physical: Riccardo is capable of taking anything Pippo decides to do to him, no matter how painful or humiliating, because it is nothing he has not experienced before. Riccardo knows his body, knows what limits he can cross and still come out relatively unscratched.  
  
That morning with Pirlo had definitely been pushing the outer limits, a step into an unfamiliar territory, but it had still been fine because it had been all physical. Riccardo has been used, humiliated, violated too many times to count – so many times that he has become numb to it, learned to take advantage of it.  
  
The physical part he can take, and that is why he does not even consider backing out of Pippo’s challenge as he slips into an empty bathroom stall after the rehab session and pulls out the butt plug Pippo had given him the day before.  
  
The rest of the team is still training, so there is no one else in the bathroom, but Riccardo still makes no sound as he starts preparing himself.  
  
One finger in, then two, add more lube a couple of times; he takes it deliberately slowly, makes sure there are no extra tensions remaining in his body before pushing the plug in place. He does not trust Pippo: who knows how long he will have to keep the toy inside him this time, acting like there is nothing out of ordinary going on, so he has to make sure it will bother him as little as possible.  
  
Walking with the plug is uncomfortable, but not exactly painful. Nothing Riccardo cannot handle, and if there is any noticeable tension to his stance, he can always chalk it up to his leg hurting.  
  
It is probably exactly why Pippo had dared to tell him do it in the first place: because he knew Riccardo would be fine with it.  
  
And that is the problem. That is the reason Riccardo is feeling so uncomfortable around the coach.  
  
He is letting Pippo too close, allowing him to see shimmers of himself, stuff not even his closest friends or wife have ever seen, because he has never allowed them past his barriers, has never opened up to them.  
  
Riccardo is cracking, and Pippo has seen a glimpse of what is underneath, even if the coach himself is probably still unaware of what it is that he is seeing.  
  
 _”He’s already winning you over; you trust him.”_  
  
Andrea may have been onto something. But not really. Because Riccardo does not trust Pippo – he does not trust anyone, and he has no intention to.  
  
But there is something about Pippo, something that is breaking through Riccardo’s defences piece by piece, and there is nothing he can do to stop it. At times it feels like Pippo actually  _gets him_ , not analytically like Andrea, but intuitively, like he could just reach out his hand and pull out that part of Riccardo no one should ever be able to touch.  
  
Riccardo has considered pulling away, calling it quits and starting the game all over again. He knows he could do it: turn the players against the coach, force him to do his bidding, push him into a corner and make him regret ever accepting the job.  
  
It would be all so easy, but Riccardo cannot do that, not when he has come so far, not when he is so close to beating Pippo at his own game: because Riccardo knows Pippo’s weakness, the one that will break him for good.  
  
He can hear Berlusconi’s car outside – a car today, not a helicopter – as he makes his way to the dressing rooms where the rest of the team have just gathered. They will have a brief meeting with the president now, before everyone will have dinner: the other players in the dining room, while Riccardo joins Pippo and Berlusconi in the cabinet.  
  
Riccardo tries to keep his posture straight, not moving his hips too much to avoid moving the plug inside him. He might be fine with a toy in his ass, but the said toy rubbing his prostate could lead to some uncomfortable dinner conversations.  
  
Giampaolo notices the change in his walk right away, because he is always watching, always making sure Riccardo is alright – Riccardo had always thought it would be Giampaolo who would see through his act first, because he has always just  _been_  there, but either he cannot see it or does not want to see it. Riccardo could not blame him even if it were the latter.  
  
He waves off the worried questions with a laugh, says the rehab was harder than usual. This part he is good at.  
  
He is also good with Berlusconi: accepting the fatherly greeting, assuring him he will be back on the pitch in no time, all the while letting him do most of the talking. Playing Berlusconi was always the easy part: this is the man who gave him the captaincy, after all.  
  
Pippo brushes his hand against the small of Riccardo’s back, dropping lower to run his thumb between his buttocks through the sweatpants as soon as the cameras are off them, following Berlusconi as he makes his normal rounds through the dressing room, everyone’s attention fixed on him.  
  
Riccardo’s breath hitches when Pippo pushes against the hilt of the plug, moving it just slightly inside him. Riccardo thinks he should have used more lube, just to be on the safe side.  
  
Pippo retracts his hand and moves a step away from him just as Berlusconi turns back towards them, having finished his impromptu pep talk. Riccardo did not hear a word of what he said, but he has a pretty good idea from all the previous times: the speech never changes that much, anyways.  
  
The walk to the dining cabinet feels longer than ever. Riccardo makes sure to always stay only a step behind Pippo and the president, listening to their conversation but not interrupting, making himself invisible, not giving them any reason to turn their attention to him.  
  
The dinner is uneventful, not any different from all the other times he has been invited to join Berlusconi’s entourage. Riccardo almost manages to forget about the uncomfortable pressure in his backside, as long as he stays still.  
  
Pippo is helping too, keeping the conversation going, holding Berlusconi’s attention on himself. Riccardo can almost relax by the time the dessert is served, laughing politely at some joke Berlusconi makes about Pippo’s eating habits.  
  
And that is when the plug starts pulsating inside him, making him almost jump up from his chair, a surprised gasp escaping his lips before he can stop it.  
  
Fuck it, he should have remembered the stupid remote control – he should have removed the batteries when he had the chance!  
  
Riccardo manages to hide his reaction into a fit of coughs, covering his mouth with a napkin, pretending he inhaled a piece of his food. He tries to keep himself from squirming in his seat as Pippo reaches out to pound his back, asking if he is okay, the worry in his voice so real that someone more gullible might actually believe he did not know what was going on.  
  
“Please excuse me, Presidente,” he tells Berlusconi before faking another cough as the plug pulses against his prostate. His eyes are watering from the effort not to give anything away, and he wishes he could just stand up and leave – but that might reveal too much as well, the sweatpants leaving little to imagination.  
  
Then the vibration is gone, and Riccardo can breathe normally again. Pippo is rubbing his back in circular motions, advising him to drink some water, and Riccardo lets out another cough just for the good measure before picking up his glass and doing as instructed.  
  
“You should be more careful, my boy,” Berlusconi tells him once he sets the glass down and apologizes again, “We wouldn’t want you to choke yourself now that your leg’s finally getting better, now would we?”  
  
Pippo is caressing the back of his neck now – almost a fatherly gesture, except Riccardo can feel him tracing the collar pointedly – and Riccardo needs to force an apologetic smile on his face as he promises to stay alive until the end of his rehabilitation.  
  
This is what Pippo does to him, Riccardo realizes as the conversation turns back to Pippo’s tactics –  _“Pippo my lad, you should at least try playing the diamond”_  – he would never have let his guard down like that with Seedorf or Allegri, or any other coach before them.  
  
He really is cracking, and it is getting dangerous. He needs to end this game before he slips too much, gives away something without meaning to.  
  
Riccardo excuses himself as Pippo offers to see the president back to his car, but instead of going to the bathroom to remove the plug, he heads straight to Pippo’s office, ignoring his still half-hard cock and the pressure against his prostate.  
  
The door is unlocked – Pippo should really be more careful with it, who knows what psychos might sneak in while he is gone – so Riccardo slips in unnoticed and sits down on the bed to wait for him.  
  
The bed cover is the same one Seedorf and Allegri used: thick and rough, uncomfortable against bare skin, could even cause a rug burn if the sex was hard enough. Riccardo still remembers how much fun he had complaining about the rash to Clarence on several occasions.  
  
“You should change the cover, it gives a bitch-ass rug burn,” he greets Pippo when he finally walks into the office, looking only mildly surprised to find Riccardo there.  
  
“Not my problem,” Pippo retorts with a shrug, kicking the door closed behind him.  
  
“And you should keep your door locked.”  
  
“Until now, you’re the only one rude enough to just barge in uninvited.”  
  
Riccardo spreads his legs, leaning his forearms against his thighs, and tilts his head to the side just a little, meeting Pippo’s eyes challengingly, “I thought that’s what you wanted.”  
  
He never flirts with Pippo, not openly, but this time is different, because he wants Pippo to notice he is pretending – because Pippo  _cares_ , no matter what he says, and that is why he cannot leave Riccardo alone, not anymore.  
  
That is why Riccardo is going to win.  
  
“You’re angry about what happened there,” Pippo observes, a bit too certain, a bit too fast to make it sound natural. Riccardo has been playing a role for far too long not to notice when someone else is doing the same.  
  
“No, I’m fucking horny because I’ve had a butt plug rubbing on my prostate for over two hours now, and it’s all your fault,  _Mister_ ,” he stretches the syllables deliberately, making the title sound like an insult.  
  
He is cracking, he is done submitting, he is done playing, and he wants Pippo to see it. This is where the game ends: full ninety minutes, no extra time added.  
  
Pippo is watching him, his mouth open as if to respond with something smart, but nothing comes out as Riccardo pushes a hand into his pants, grasps his own cock tightly, stroking himself into full hardness, his eyes never straying from Pippo’s.  
  
“Don’t you get it, Mister?” he speaks quietly, coldly, keeping his voice devoid of any emotion, “You never had me. You lost this the moment you thought you could play me. You and your little games. I own you.”  
  
 _”I own you, Clarence.”_  
  
It is the role he has never shown in front of Pippo, because he knew Pippo would never fall for it.  
  
Pippo has seen him. Pippo gets him. And even if it might scare Riccardo, he still knows it should terrify Pippo much, much more. Because Pippo feels responsible for him.  
  
 _“Because you actually enjoy it: letting someone else control you for a change.”_  
  
Riccardo has never lost control, not like this. He did not anticipate Pippo getting under his skin when this all started, and he has never been wrong before. Never. He always knows what the next step is, because he is looking at the situation from the outside, completely uninvolved.  
  
Since when did he get so involved with Pippo?  
  
He squirms his hips, pushes the sweatpants down to his thighs, just enough to pull his cock out, to show himself to Pippo. It has never been about sex between them, but at this point the lines are getting blurry, twisted, unrecognizable – sex is not just sex anymore.  
  
Pippo is still not moving, stuck in place, and Riccardo cannot help but laugh – cold, mirthless, taunting, challenging – before repeating the words from the day before, “You need me, Mister.”  
  
“No,” Pippo’s voice is coarse, forced, as if he is fighting against his better judgement even as he says it, “This is not you, Riccardo. You don’t even think I could fall for that, do you?”  
  
“You don’t know me, Pippo,” Riccardo retorts immediately, dropping the title to emphasize the change in their situation, “You never knew me. Just like Clarence. Just like Max. Just like everyone else.”  
  
“Then what are you so afraid of?” Pippo strides over to him, standing between his legs, his hand on Riccardo’s chin to pull his face up, looking down at him calmly – no challenge, no anger, no fear – “When did anyone tell you that you were not important? That you were not needed?”  
  
 _All the time. All of them. Every single one of them. Until Riccardo started fighting back. Until he made himself important. Until he made sure no one would ever look at him like that again._  
  
Pippo is looking right through him. Pippo is  _seeing_  him.  
  
“No one’s ever gonna say that again,” Riccardo whispers. It is hollow, dismissive, but also closest to the truth he has ever told anyone. And Pippo knows it, he must know it.  
  
“I know,” Pippo leans in as he says it, lifting his other hand to cup Riccardo’s face as well, not allowing him to move away, “Because you are important.”  
  
The kiss that follows is different from all the others: it is the first time Pippo has kissed him like he really means it, like it is more than just a game for him. The tears slip out of Riccardo’s eyes much more easily than he had anticipated, but it does not matter because Pippo is wiping them away, deepening the kiss,  _caring_  for him.  
  
If he cannot hide, it is all over. There is nothing more left for him.  
  
Riccardo lets Pippo push him down to the bed, the cover scraping his buttocks uncomfortably but he does not complain. Pippo has the control: there is no point in fighting anymore.  
  
Pippo does not touch his erection, letting Riccardo continue his own slow stroking. He reaches for his ass instead, pulling the butt plug out carefully, earning a soft whine from Riccardo as he pushes his fingers in instead.  
  
“You were always important, Riccardo,” Pippo repeats against his lips before kissing him again, brushing his tongue into his mouth, finding no resistance.  
  
Riccardo does not return the kiss. What is the point when the game is over? He even halts his hand on his cock, just waiting for Pippo to do whatever he wants.  
  
And just as expected, Pippo pulls away, sits up on the bed and just looks at him, confusion and worry shining from his eyes. He had thought he understood, that he had found something—  
  
“You wanted to see the real Riccardo,” Riccardo says softly, staring at the ceiling instead of meeting Pippo’s eyes, and then he lets out a hollow laugh, “Congratulations, I guess you found it.”  
  
“No—” Pippo starts, but he stops there, like unsure what else he is supposed to say.  
  
“Code red, Mister. You win,” Riccardo does not move, does not make any attempt to get up from the bed or even to pull his pants up, “Feels great, doesn’t it?”  
  
Riccardo feels like laughing again, so he does: humourless, cold laughter. Because behind all the roles, all the games, there is nothing left. Nothing at all. Just an empty shell. Useless. Hopeless.  
  
Who would have thought?  
  
Riccardo has finally cracked, and it will be all on Pippo.  
  
Riccardo laughs just that bit harder, because it is absolutely  _hilarious_  how easy it really was: breaking them both, shattering all the illusions, making it as much about Pippo as about himself, if not more so.  
  
Riccardo never knew losing could feel so much like a victory.  
  
  
  
“I win,” Riccardo says into the phone quietly, twirling the whisky in his glass, staring at how the brown liqueur twists with every movement of his wrist. He is glad Cristina is in Venice for the weekend, just long enough so he can pull himself back together.  
  
Andrea is silent for a long time, and for a second Riccardo thinks he may have hung up on him, but then the answer comes, “Are you okay?”  
  
There is no defiance in Andrea’s voice, no doubt or scepticism, just acceptance.  
  
Riccardo’s hand moves to his neck almost unconsciously, fingers tracing the place where the collar used to hang. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can almost feel the soft leather even now, a familiar touch against his skin.  
  
“I win,” he repeats gently before hanging up, knowing full well that the simple reply is telling Andrea more than he has even admitted to himself.  
  
He downs the rest of his whisky in one go and pours himself another glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- ~~Please don’t kill me?~~  
>  \- I’m supposed to be writing my thesis right now. Please someone kick my ass for procrastinating again?  
> \- But I finished this! I finally finished this! *throws confetti*  
> \- It’s no big secret that Berlusconi’s favourite formation is 4-3-1-2 with the diamond midfield. He used to tell Ancelotti to use it even when he was winning with the Christmas tree, and he more or less forced both Allegri and Seedorf into using it, so I think it’s pretty much given that he would ask Pippo to use it as well.  
> \- Monto’s POV is so damn hard to write! If I had known where this was going from the start, I would’ve done this whole story from Pippo’s perspective. It’s all just a big mess of Monto’s own internal monologues and twisted perceptions of reality. That said, I’m actually happy how this part turned out. I know I left lots of ambiguity in there, but I hope you still got something out of it..?
> 
> \- Thank you a thousand times for sticking with me all this time! Comments would be lovely.♥


End file.
